


American Spirit

by rlnerdgirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Derek has a problem with it, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attack, Stiles takes up smoking, but not in detail, but not intense angst, kind of intense angst?, upon re-reading years later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rlnerdgirl/pseuds/rlnerdgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments later an engine rumbles to life and Stiles is gone, getting shipped off to Idaho, to some twenty-eight day Wilderness Program therapy meant to fix angry, defiant, rebellious, manipulative, out-of-control teenagers. Stiles doesn't belong there, but he hadn't told any of them, hadn't warned them of the repercussions if he kept running around at all hours of the night, kept coming home bruised and scraped up with bright, blown-wide eyes—kept risking his life and saving others and, for the first time, killed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	American Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> Written in reply to the Tumblr ask box prompt: _It isn’t fire that triggers his memories, his fears. It’s smoke. Even the thinnest wisps thicken in his throat and threaten to choke him. When Stiles begins smoking it isn’t the health risk Derek is pissed about._

Stiles doesn’t tell anyone about the threat the Sheriff is hanging over him through senior year—he doesn’t tell Scott and he doesn’t tell Lydia and he doesn’t tell Derek, which bites more than he’d have expected because they develop a grudging relationship that might mimic a friendship, one that he thinks would make himself worthy of such information. Stiles keeps his mouth shut about it, and while it pisses Derek off, he understands the reasoning, even if the kid doesn’t explain himself. He didn’t want to slow anyone down, didn’t want to make them second guess themselves, hesitate to call or ask for help, make himself unavailable, unattainable, and potentially leave them hanging.

 

So, come summer, Derek watches the Stilinski house from the tree line at the edge of the property and listens as Stiles packs an old backpacking pack, probably his dad’s, Skyp’s Scott to say goodbye, and meets his dad at the bottom of the stairs. It’s the first Monday of summer vacation, it’s seven a.m., and Stiles is saying, “Well, I guess I’m ready then.”

 

“Stiles…” The Sheriff sounds worn out, exhausted, lost. There’s a rough scraping—a hand over facial hair. “I…”

 

“Hey, dad, I know. I messed up.”

 

“I’m just so _disappointed_.”

 

The silence that follows is deafening, or would be, if Stiles’ heart weren’t filling Derek’s ears in a flying panic of drumming beats.

 

Moments later an engine rumbles to life and Stiles is gone, getting shipped off to Idaho, to some twenty-eight day Wilderness Program therapy meant to fix angry, defiant, rebellious, manipulative, out-of-control teenagers. Stiles doesn’t belong there, but he hadn’t told any of them, hadn’t warned them of the repercussions if he kept running around at all hours of the night, kept coming home bruised and scraped up with bright, blown-wide eyes—kept risking his life and saving others and, for the first time, killed.

 

…

…

 

Derek doesn’t see Stiles right away. Twenty-eight days turned into eight weeks, a full summer vacation down the drain—a summer that, in Beacon Hills, was unnaturally calm and lacking in the threatening supernatural being department. Taking advantage of the lull, Derek and the pack have been working on turning his old family home into something that won’t be the blight of the community and constantly in threat of being torn down the moment the money to do so appears. The project has had surprising affects on the pack, solidifying his relationship with Isaac, Boyd, and Erica. The loose bonds between him and Scott have even begun to settle into something not quite pack but more of a mutual acquaintanceship, Allison has proven herself trustworthy—at least with a hammer and nail, and Lydia is a decent project manager when she’s not pissing people off by making them feel deficient.

 

There’s a week left of summer and today Scott is working at the clinic, Allison is training with her father, Lydia is in France but coming home tomorrow. Isaac is hanging out the porch, which is new and pristine and waiting for furniture Derek doesn’t care enough about at the moment to concern himself with, until Erica and Boyd arrive and they can finish the drywall upstairs. He’s upstairs cutting the last few panels of mold and fire resistant drywall so the day will go by as quickly as possible when his phone buzzes.

 

_stiles is back. think he needs someone to talk to._

 

It’s from Scott, and, considering the content, it makes him frown.

 

_Why me?_

 

Thirty seconds and his phone buzzes again.

 

_he’s different. don’t know what to do._

 

_Okay._

 

He takes a minute to change out of his dusty carpentry clothes, grabs his leather jacket, palms the keys to the Camaro, and heads out.

 

“Something wrong?” Isaac wonders from the steps, brows furrowed in muted concern.

 

“I don’t know. When Boyd and Erica get here go ahead and finish up the upstairs. I’ll be back when I can.”

 

…

…

 

He’s confused about what ‘different’ means, until he isn’t, and then he knows exactly what Scott was talking about, smells it before he even sees Stiles, who’s hidden away in the forest behind his house, lounging, loose-limbed, in a blue and green striped lawn chair with a glowing cigarette hanging from his lips precariously, smoke wafting around him in a way that makes him look a little like an illusion. A pack of American Spirit Yellows and an orange lighter lay in the ground by his feet, the pack open, aluminum ripped apart to show only half a dozen sticks remaining.

 

“What are you doing?” The question comes out lower, more vehemently than he’d intended and Stiles twitches and jumps in his chair, a wincing grimace tightening his features as he whips his head around and up to look over at Derek.

 

“God you scared me,” he murmurs. The cigarette looks as though it will fall away from his lips at any given moment, but when the words stop and he tightens his lips it stiffens securely, and when he takes a deep breath he holds it for a few heartbeats before slowly letting it out. Tendrils of gray smoke seep from his nostrils and the crack of his dry lips. For a second it looks like he’s burning from the inside.

 

Derek hates the way it makes his chest clench, his gut twist and knot. Nausea washes over him and his heart beats faster, threatening to make his palms sweat and his face go pale. Fire doesn’t bother him, fire is something he can deal with, run through, heal from. The slow suffocating power of smoke, that chokes out screams and bottles up cries for help, is a completely different story. He takes a breath, composes himself, and repeats, “What are you doing?” unable to keep his attention from flickering between Stiles’ eyes and the cigarette in his mouth.

 

It takes a second, and then Stiles’ wide eyes widen a little more. “Oh. Yeah.” A long-fingered hand comes up, caresses the cigarette in his mouth, and Derek thinks that, maybe, he’s going to take it, snuff it out against the dirt and dead leaves under him, and that will be that. Considering it’s Stiles, it’s unsurprising that he doesn’t do any of those things. “A kid from camp suggested it. Said it took the edge off. Didn’t believe him at first.” He half rolls his eyes and shrugs. “Turns out he was right.”

 

“ _What_ kid?”

 

It’s a testament to how not okay he is with the situation, how not well he’s handling it, that Stiles’ eyes narrow, brow furrows, and he leans forward. “Hey, are you okay?”

 

No. He’s not okay. He wants to walk over there and rip the thing out of Stiles’ mouth, throw it on the ground and smash the living shit out of it, squeeze Stiles around the ribs until all the smoke leaks out and there’s nothing left but clean mountain air in both their lungs. He wants to turn around and walk away. He wants to throw up. He wants to shout, punch Stiles in the throat, and tell him he’s an insensitive jackass. “I’m fine,” he says, gruff and too quickly, and it’s clear to both of them that it is a blatant lie.

 

“You don’t like it.” He still doesn’t put the cigarette out. Instead he takes another drag, another hold, another exhale. It’s clear he’s not doing it to antagonize Derek, because it already looks so natural, like he’s doing it without even thinking, like he’s been doing it forever.

 

Derek’s throat works. While they weren’t necessarily _close_ , they’d worked toward being almost honest with each other, and this feels like a betrayal somehow, and it feels strange to finding it difficult to reach for the truth. Finally though, “No, I don’t,” gets ripped out of him by sheer willpower.

 

“Hmmm,” is the considering noise of an asshole pretending to give a shit and still not putting out his cigarette. Sometimes Derek forgets that Stiles isn’t as nice as Scott, that Stiles has seen the dark side of the world, that he can be selfish and manipulative and isn’t full of butterflies and rainbows like his best friend.

 

“Put it out.” The words are a demand that grind out of him and make the edges of Stiles’ dry lips quirk up in amusement. “Now.”

 

Previous concern forgotten, Stiles relaxes back into his lawn chair. “No.” He takes another drag. Hold. Exhale.

 

His mouth is dry with the taste of smoke. At the back of his throat it doesn’t taste like cigarettes. It tastes like wood and paint, people and screams. His stomach threatens to rebel in a way it hasn’t since after his first month in New York, when he’d trained himself to ignore the smell of cigarettes and smoke, that those scents weren’t his house and his family burning alive in front of him. The strength of his reaction now is unexpected and unnerving. “Stiles.” The name is a snarl.

 

“Derek.” Much more light and playful, but there’s an undertone of steel and dug-in heals, like they’re having a fight that actually means something to both of them, like this isn’t one way.

 

Realizing he’s not getting anywhere, that short of turning around and walking away, giving up, Stiles isn’t going to be putting the cigarette out any time soon, he tries another tactic. “What happened to you?” Because something happened. This isn’t the Stiles that crumbled into panicked silence at his father’s disappointment two months ago.

 

“Nothing _happened_ to me,” he sighs, melodramatic. It comes with an eye roll that’s meant to seal the deal for casual and blasé, but his hand snakes up to rub at his chest, probably an unconscious movement, and Derek’s eyes narrow, his nostrils flaring as he inhales.

 

Dry smoke rushes down his throat, fills his lungs, threatens to choke him, makes his stomach boil and roll. Memories flash behind his eyes faster than he can keep up with them. Under all of it is Stiles and a sharp tang of a fresh wound. Raw flesh and Stiles’ blood and the smoke pours out of his next exhale. He narrows his eyes, “What _happened_?”

 

There’s another eye roll. Theatrical and accompanied by wide arm movements that, now that Derek is attuned to it, make the edges of Stiles’ eyes and lips pinch in pain. “I realized I’m stuck with this forever.”

 

“This?”

 

“You. Werewolves. The supernatural.”

 

Derek’s lips pull together in a tight frown before he gives a quick shake of his head and says, “No you’re not. You can walk away.”

 

The stare Stiles settles him with is flat and intense enough it makes Derek want to take a step back. The, “I really can’t,” it dark and bitter and makes the smoke start clogging in Derek’s throat again.

 

“Stiles. What happened?”

 

A heavy breath of gray haze and Stiles’ gaze drops to the forest floor, his shoulders slump, his head gives a single shake. “The details aren’t important.”

 

Something about it, the tone or the posture, tell Derek not to press, not right now. Maybe later, but not right here at this moment. He’ll get Stiles to talk, eventually, but he needs to back off now or he’s going to threaten Stiles into shutting down for good. So he asks, “Why the smoking?” instead. Innocent compared to the questions he wants to ask.

 

Again with the half-unconscious rub against his chest. Drag. Hold. Exhale.

 

“I didn’t expect it, but the Adderall makes it so much more addictive. When I’m not smoking all that’s going through my mind is, _cigarette, cigarette, cigarette_.”

 

Drag. Hold. Exhale.

 

“It’s actually really nice, because when all I can think about is the next time I get to smoke there’s no room to think about the screams, the blood, and the bodies.”

 

Drag.

 

Hold.

 

Exhale.

 

Everything going through Derek’s head, the anxiety, the anger, the nausea, the memories, the frustration, stop, and suddenly the world is focused and clear and includes only him and Stiles and this moment right here. Without thought or intention he takes a step forward, halts when Stiles’ eyes snap up to him, guarded, dark, and sharp, but his pupils don’t dilate any more than they already have and Derek frowns. “Are you _on_ something?”

 

Stiles’ lips twist into a smile that reaches his eyes, but not in the right way. “I’m on so many things, you don’t even know.”

 

“Are you _kidding_ me?” The anger is starting to come back, fast and fierce and full force. Something’s not just wrong with Stiles, Stiles might be broken, and he has no idea what to do about that.

 

“No, not kidding.” Drag. Hold. Exhale. “You don’t have to get so pissed, it’s all prescription, I can show you the bottles if you want. They have my name on them and everything.” His eyes have started to brighten to match his smile, like they’re just slow on the uptake and need time to warm up. It’s unnerving.

 

“Prescription?” For all the questions zipping through his mind, for how fast it’s running, it’s taking a lot for him to keep up. Maybe because it’s still held up on ‘screams and blood and bodies,’ attempting to imagine what Stiles meant, what Stiles saw.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What…” He wants to ask, ‘What happened?’ and ‘What did you see?’ and ‘What did it?’ All of the variations hang in the air like slabs of cow in a butcher’s freezer, large, hulking, unavoidable, threatening. He tries something else but the, “When?” doesn’t feel all that much better.

 

The smile dissolves. Bright eyes darken, narrow, fade, and look beyond Derek, seeing something he can’t, never will. “During the last retreat, on the fourth week.”

 

“But-” Stiles had been gone for eight weeks.

 

With a shudder and a blink, Stiles refocuses on Derek, lips twisted, something grim and dark. “I was admitted after the Rangers found me. Thirty-day minimum stay. Apparently I wasn’t all that coherent when they found me, which took a few days, I’d found my way into a cranny at the bottom of a rather treacherous ravine. Broke three of the first Ranger’s fingers and nearly ripped open his brachial artery with my teeth. Not a pleasant day for anybody.”

 

Derek blinks, has no idea what to do, how to react, what to say. Instead he just watches as Stiles reaches up with uncannily steady fingers to pluck the almost finished cigarette out from between his lips and bring his foot up to snuff it out against the bottom of his sneaker. Then he’s saying, “I’m going to want to talk to you again, because I have some questions about things, but can you do me a favor right now?”

 

“Sure.” It comes out quick and natural. Whatever Stiles wants, whatever Stiles needs, he’ll do.

 

“Can you leave?”

 

Wait. “What?”

 

A breath, and then another, a little shaky. “Yeah, I’m about to completely lose it, and I am so not okay with having people around for that, not even my dad, so don’t take it personally, but I really need you to leave. Kinda now-ish.”

 

Derek nods. It’s a quick, spastic motion, not that he thinks Stiles notices. “Sure. Yeah.”

 

Stiles is starting to shudder now. His eyes are closed and he’s taking even breaths, closing into fists and then opening, long fingers splayed wide, repetitively, attempting to hold on to some semblance of control. A battle he is clearly losing. “We’ll talk,” he says, doesn’t make it a question, before turning around and walking away, purposefully making enough noise that Stiles can hear the distance growing between them.

 

Long before Derek’s out of his own hearing range Stiles loses it, pushing himself out of or collapsing from the chair onto the dry, piney floor of the forest to shiver and shake and take too deep, too fast, ragged breaths. His heart beats frantically, worse than a rabbit on the run. It’s surprising to realize he’s comfortable in the knowledge that Stiles knows the request that he made, knows himself well enough to handle himself, that he would have requested his father, or a nine-one-one call if he’d needed it. Then again, the knowledge doesn’t keep Derek from lingering on the fringes, listening and waiting, a presence only in his own mind, but there nonetheless. Just in case.

 

It takes an hour and a half before Stiles’ breathing and heart rate return to normal, until the sobbing breaths dry up and he pushes himself back up, slides back into his lawn chair. When Derek hears the rustle of the half-empty cigarette pack being picked up and then the _thwick_ of the lighter followed by a few long, coaxing breaths, he feels good enough to turn around and walk away completely.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://rlnerdgirl.tumblr.com/) for quick and easy updates on what I'm writing!
> 
> Edit made to the year in which this is happening. Originally was post junior year, now post senior, because that's what is was originally supposed to be. I apologize for any confusion.


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